


Weight of Water

by jouissant



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: F/M, Genderswap, Masturbation, PWP, Shower Sex, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-28
Updated: 2010-08-28
Packaged: 2017-10-11 07:12:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/109824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jouissant/pseuds/jouissant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spock is watching her again. He can't help it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Weight of Water

**Author's Note:**

> For kink_bingo, for my "emotion manipulation" square.

Spock is watching her again. He can't help it. He should perhaps try harder to help it, but he cannot quite summon the willpower. He regrets it. No, he does not regret it.

His eyes steal across the room to Captain Kirk, whose arms are twisted behind her back, bent at odd angles in an attempt to get at her zipper. She inclines her head, hair falling forward around her face. She cannot see him watching, though he fancies she might be able to feel his eyes on the smooth golden trapezoid of flesh at her nape. The captain has three brown freckles there.

She makes a frustrated noise. "A little help?"

He moves behind her wordlessly, unzipping the uniform to her waist and stepping back as if the touch burns.

She sighs, rolling her neck in a lazy circle. Spock can hear the pop of her cervical vertebrae.

"Thanks."

Still facing away from him, she bends at the waist and unzips one tall black boot, then the next. She peels off each sock with the opposite toe, and Spock's breath catches. He turns back to his own boots, shrugs out of his tunic. A flash of gold at the corner of his eye tells him Kirk has stepped out of her dress. Oh. He feels his resting heart rate increase by a full twenty-two beats per minute, and is seized by the irrational belief that Kirk might be able to hear him in the silence of the decontamination chamber. He allows himself a peek.

Her undergarments are not regulation.

She turns to face him with a grin. "Are you going to shower, or what? The sooner we get whatever-it-is in the Cygnian atmosphere Bones objects to off of our bodies, the sooner we can grab dinner and be in my quarters. So I can school you at chess."

The dominant element in the Cygnian atmosphere is neutralized by water, Spock supplies mentally.

Kirk's non-regulation brassiere fastens in the front. She fingers the clasp and it pops free.

"C'mon, Spock, strip. That's an order. I'm starving."

She removes her briefs, which Spock numbly catalogues as black Chantilly lace, a pattern derived from 17th century Earth. France, to be exact. Perhaps he looks just a moment too long, because a strange current seems to pass between them before she moves past him to the showers.

He complies with her orders, and follows.

The showers are not private. The water from each of the long row of showerheads swirls into the same silver-grated drain. Two showers down, Kirk closes her eyes and leans back into the stream. The flow is hot, steam rising around her body. Spock turns his shower on and lets it run. He knows he should step under the water, let it fall around him like a curtain, but he cannot bring himself to do so.

She moans as the water hits her. Spock imagines the feel of it sluicing over her shoulders, her breasts, her belly, soothing tired and aching muscles. He imagines it flowing further down, warmth dripping off her rounded hips, her mound; perhaps a droplet hanging heavy on her clitoris. As he watches, Kirk reaches out with one hand and punches a button set into the shiny blue tile. The soap dispenser releases a creamy froth into her outstretched palm, and Kirk raises the hand to her chest. She spreads the lather over her breasts, moving slowly. Deliberately, Spock thinks. Somewhere in his brain, an alarm sounds. Before him, Kirk circles each breast in turn and spirals inward to tease her nipples hard.

Spock's mouth falls open.   
Eyes still shut, Jamie Kirk bites her lip.

She swipes soapy fingers over the soft curve of her belly. The suds drip down into her curls and she chases them, parting her folds to reveal a flash of lurid pink. "Mmmm," she says, arching her back into the wall. She straightens, tossing her sodden hair heavily over her shoulders.

She opens her eyes.   
Spock's face burns, and he doesn't need a mirror to know it's suffused with green. Hot shame lances down with the water to wrap his penis and, to his utter horror, he realizes he is half -hard.

Kirk looks at him,_right at him_ and her hand begins to move, fingers circling her clitoris. Spock imagines it swelling, filling and growing taut with blood. He imagines flicking it with his tongue, lapping at her, tasting salt and clean water. She leans heavily against the slick tile, head out of the shower's reach, hips and thighs drenched. Her hand works faster, and she begins to make little sounds, groans and gasps that echo around the room.

Kirk's hips circle, pivoting on her fingers. She dips lower, bending her knees to reach fingers inside. He watches her quadriceps flex. She thumbs her clit and he thinks of the electricity of nerves.

 

Spock is fully, impossibly hard now. He feels the pulse of his dorsal artery beat time with his heart. Blood and water roar in his ears and Kirk's eyes rake over him, burning. He thinks that any second now she will smile at him. And if she smiles at him, Spock decides, he will die.

"Oh!" she cries, turning her head into her shoulder, mouth opening soundlessly. She clenches her thighs and shudders around her hand.

Spock cannot help himself. He wants to touch everywhere, wants the warm water to run over and around him and into him. Instead, he cautiously wraps a hand around his shaft and flicks his wrist. It feels experimental, adolescent.

Kirk raises her head looks at him. Her eyes are wide. She parts her lips with obscene ease, and she smiles.

Spock comes.

***  
He steps into the water and stays there for a long time, until his heart slows and the flight impulse dies away. His fingertips are bright white and waterlogged. He counts to one hundred and turns the knob until it squeaks.

She's sitting on the long bench in the decon room, head bent, combing out her hair. He can't look at her. Water clings to his lashes and he blinks it away. She stands smoothly, stepping in front of him. Her hair hangs between them and she peers at him through it.

"Hey," she says.

Her grin reaches all the way to her eyes.


End file.
